Chapter 6
CHAPTER SIX
OLIVER
Christ, I’ve been staring into this quarter-packed suitcase that’s lying on my bed for…God knows how long.
After Lexi left yesterday, I barely held my head together for the documentary meeting. And ever since, my mind keeps drifting off and I catch myself gazing blankly out the window, at an increasingly cold plate of food, or right now, into the case I need to fill for my trip home tomorrow.
I don’t even know why she’s intrigued me this much.
Yes, she’s startlingly attractive.
And obviously incredibly smart.
And quick-witted.
And, if she works for The Current, she must be talented.
I guess, when you look at it like that, those are the reasons.
But all those reasons are overridden by the fact she’s a fucking reporter.
I blow out a long breath that ripples my lips and rap my knuckles against my forehead to try to drum some sense into myself.
Why couldn’t the publisher have sent me a sixty-year-old, cozy, mild-mannered male writer who spends his days sitting quietly in a corner, penning biographies for famous people who can’t string written words together in coherent sentences?
“She’s the best person for the job,” they told my agent in the email he’d forwarded to me.
“The ghostwriter who’s sold more books than any other that we’ve used.
Her journalistic skills will give it a crisp, news-aware edge, and her compassion will add the touch of humanity that the book about your life needs. ”
So here I am. Not only traveling to Scotland for two weeks with someone to whom I have to retell all the significant moments of my life, which will be hard enough anyway, but that someone belongs to a breed of people I’ve spent my life actively avoiding.
And the cherry on top of the shit sprinkles—I have to pretend she’s my girlfriend.
Hell, I thought the horror stories of my dysfunctional family and vile press intrusion might put her off. But no. She’s determined. And she strikes me as someone who’s like a hungry tiger with a fresh carcass once she’s set her mind to something.
Oh God, I need to let the guys know. I don’t want my Boston Commoners’ partners believing anything they might read over the next few days about me having a new hot reporter girlfriend.
I mean, just reporter girlfriend.
But it’s hardly wrong to say Lexi Lane is hot. It’s objectively a fact that she is. It doesn’t mean I’m going to try to pick her up or anything. God forbid. No, those days are long behind me. And I wouldn’t ever dream of giving a journalist anything other than the widest of berths.
Yeah, that’s what the world will think she is—my hot reporter girlfriend.
Which, now I come to think about it, might make me look good.
A hum of pride at the idea that people might think someone like Lexi might have picked me, makes me stand a little taller.
Clearly she never would though. She hardly seemed a big fan of the concept of royalty.
Heading to the living room, I pull my phone from my back pocket and call up the Commoners group chat with the three men I now call my very best friends—Chase the actor, Miller the Boston condo king, and Leo the billionaire who seems to have lots of fingers in lots of pies but I have no idea what he actually does.
ME
Hey guys, just a heads-up not to believe any stories that might come out about me having a new girlfriend called Lexi who’s a reporter. It’s not true.
I drop into the rocking egg chair and spin it to face the Empire State Building. The sun is setting and the lights are coming on.
Man, I love this city. I feel like a totally different person here. Here, it’s like everything is possible. Back home, it’s like nothing is possible other than what everyone else wants me to do.
MILLER
That’s one of the oddest and most suspicious messages I’ve ever read.
LEO
Did you do something bad?
ME
Gee, thanks, guys. No. Nothing bad. And there’s nothing suspicious or odd.
Ok, maybe it’s a bit odd.
CHASE
Isn’t Lexi the name of your ghostwriter?
LEO
Oh Jesus, Oliver. Don’t bang the ghostwriter. Recipe for disaster. On all fronts.
MILLER
Yeah, try to keep your brain in the game and out of your pants. And hers.
ME
Christ guys, I’m literally letting you know that I’m NOT sleeping with her.
MILLER
Why would we need to know that you’re not sleeping with someone we didn’t think you were sleeping with?
ME
Because the press will say I am.
CHASE
Why?
LEO
Why?
MILLER
Yeah, why?
ME
Because we’re going to have to tell everybody we are.
Got to admit, this does sound absurd. And if any of them was saying what I’m saying right now, I’d consider sending some medical professionals around to their house.
CHASE
Wanna rewind a little here? Why will you tell everyone you’re sleeping with your ghostwriter?
ME
Because she’s coming to Scotland with me for my sister’s wedding and my family would go apeshit if they knew I was writing a book, so it’s the only way to get time with her to interview me while I’m there.
LEO
Er, heard of Zoom?
ME
It’s not the same.
CHASE
Are you sure that going with you isn’t a ploy for her to get inside the royal household to write a tell-all exposé after the book’s out? She is a reporter, after all.
Shit. That hadn’t even occurred to me.
But it wasn’t her who suggested coming with me. That idea was mine. And she didn’t even want to do it to start with. So it can’t be that.
Still, how did I not think about it?
Usually suspicion at everything a reporter does or says would be my first instinct.
Why did I let my guard down with her?
Maybe it was that fire in her eyes.
Or the way the outline of her bra was just visible through her white T-shirt.
Or her completely natural, unbridled laughter at my Trainspotting impression.
Merely thinking about that makes chills hum down my arms.
But Chase is right. Once the book’s out, she could easily write a piece about what life is like with a royal family at their castle. She wouldn’t need to mention why she was there at all, so it wouldn’t break the NDA. It would be a totally different and unconnected story.
ME
Good point, mate. But I’m pretty sure she’s watertight.
Am I? If anyone knows better than to think a reporter can be trusted, it’s me.
MILLER
Would never have thought “pretty sure” would be sure enough for you when it comes to the press.
He’s right too.
Have I fucked up here? Been taken for a ride?
But the publisher and my agent said she was the best person for the job, the person who would write the best possible book for me.
And I need the best possible book. I need someone who isn’t going to fill it with fluffy crap.
I need someone who’ll tell my truth, finally get my side of the story out into the world in a way that will be taken seriously.
And even though I spent only a short time with Lexi yesterday, I really felt like she would do that. Like I could trust my instincts with her.
Her no-nonsense, no-bullshit demeanor still makes me smile today.
Most people would have dressed up to meet me for the first time. But she showed up as exactly who she is—T-shirt, jeans and sneakers, no fuss, no bother, all getting-on-with-the-job.
ME
It’ll be fine. I just wanted to head off a bunch of piss-taking texts from you about my new girlfriend. That’s all.
I drop the phone into my lap and stare at the spire of the Empire State Building. Since living here, I’ve learned it was originally supposed to be a mooring mast for airships. But no one had thought through that the wind would make that impossible.
I’m supposed to be making better life decisions these days, and mooring my life to New York City is definitely one of them.
But while I feel like Lexi is totally on my side, there is always a possibility that taking her to Scotland could be one of the least thought-through decisions I’ve ever made.